Allusions to a Purple sonnet - by A. Clam

This is no purple patch where I will seed
The spicy words of love up on a wire.
There is no ancient Tyrian poem here
That will speak of old Phoenicia to
Compare thee to a summers day, in Tyre!
This is no purple heart amphetamine
Explosion of a speeding love poem
A pink peach and triangle beating fast -
You know I am porphura, a mollusc
And I shall not spray my crimsony dyes
In the shape of a yielding scarlet heart.
You accuse me of wearing the purple:
The sonnetto judgement I'm keeping true
Is reserved, for when I am again with
you.

Don't remove the green from the village

On the ^ belt
In your ^ house
Near the village ^
Your unripe ^ gage
Is attracting ^ flies.

You will not need ^ fingers
For this ^ revolution.
You are young, unseasoned,
A new ^ horn
Given the ^ light
By the ^ eyed ladies living close by.

(It is the ^ grocer you should watch for
He is a bigger ^ eyed monster
Who says there is enough ^ 'Ery'
Here already.)

Welcome to this ^ market town
Where you may make,
And spend your ^ pound.

Latina

Latina
At whatever hour, whenever
there is Latin music,
she is Zorro
or a beautiful woman with a waist.
The colour red appears
either on a skirt, the white of a shawl
or the pink of a flower on the earth
and she dances a while
in a courtyard,
through the ceramic of low doorways,
over moonbacked teracotta tiles.

The air is garlic and magnolia.
The shadows may smoke a cigar.
Whether it is beans and rice,
a kitchen or a fire; gherkin,
goulash, paprika,
chili, tapas or tortilla,
she salsas.

In any gypsy recipe
the night is ripe with lips;
the spirit of revolution always,
in the revolution of her hips.

Another Chardonnay

And you – my passion – breeze through

These orange curtains like you own the place,
Pad along the cool ceramic floor with fiery strides
To the bar, heating the marble, raiding cupboards,
Growling; and I’m here watching you pace;
Find the bottle, put it to your lips, and drink
Like it’s a long cold winter’s night,
Wipe your mouth, sigh through your teeth,
While here I am, smiling – fisherman’s trousers tied
Around my hips, sun blazing down on the sarong,
Skin listening to those warm sea breezes,
Listening - to a lusty blond called Chardonnay
Tell me my troubles over the rim of her glass eye.
You take another swig; slam the bottle on the bar,
Yawn, stretch like a bear, step onto the porch,
I hear you say - What a perfect name…
Strike a match on the doorframe,
Light a cigar; pick Tequila from the larder…
Chardonnay wants another spiked Pina Colada –
What a perfect name…“And you?”
I reach for the bottle, put it to my lips, and drink
Like it’s a long cold winter’s night, “Whatever
You’re having, Babe - I’ll have the same.”

Petra Ichor's oil slick haiku

shit fan fan shit *duck*

water flows under the bridge

petrichor's oil slick

https://theconversation.com/the-smell-of-rain-how-csiro-invented-a-new-word-39231#:~:text=The%20word%20is%20%E2%80%9Cpetrichor%E2%80%9D%2C,before%20rain%20begins%20to%20fall.

Door in a Field

It’s not so dramatic, of course - the door was in a field,

the middle of a huge field, just there in its frame, slightly
ajar; and so unwelcome guests would leave quickly,
the broom tucked in the groove left for hinges
to feel their weight; creak, loosen,
and sense some movement in the breeze,
because there was a breeze in this particular field,
and I knew it was a field because it was green,
not black and white like in the dreams people have,
not in colour either, or there would have been sky, some trees,
- and cows would have appeared chewing the cud,
- and although this now has already happened,
- and other things too, people running around
from tree to cow, building things, having revolutions,
I left the door right there slightly ajar, and watched
from a wicker chair like Van Gogh's, upset
with how the field is so easily cluttered with trees,
cows, and people running round in circles
when I thought what I wanted was a clean frame
to imagine irises like he painted
by walking backwards away from canvas,
or seeing you walking through the door, looking just fine,
carrying some shopping bags from your favourite place
somewhere in the green field that I was on the very edge of,
wondering where the door had gone, and why I was
sitting by the banks of the same river watching the litter pass,
scuffing trainers on the brickwork, waiting for the ferryman,
trying to cats-cradle beams of light.

2008

longtime no see

poem

Sensitive

We always hear the gunshots

And then the jackboots

Striding over goose steps.

And the goosesteps across my heart

And goosebumps in my throat.

And the goose fat in the pan.

And the goose.

Just stop. Watch.

Close your eyes. These goose 

steps are not dance moves.




6/2020
BoomBoom Betty and PotShot Pointer
2007

Seasonal Adjustment Disorder

The air is warm, the cool breeze
chills, the sea swells. Surf's up -
tide's high enough for the crash of waves; low though, so the roll
and drag conundrums the beach. Sea's coming in, stones polished,
shells broken; mountains become sand - gangs of parrots
shell pine-cones, a flock of gulls caw and a herd
of speckled beach towels don't budge an inch.



2007

edit
Motion
#BLM Movement 05/2020
Lockdown

(Unnecessary) Divisions of Labour

Father
Love is...
a simile - like
the NHS

Mother
Love is...
a verb